“Now you’re the one who apparently has something to say,” said Kline.
“Cougar was compromised, and he must have wondered whether the issue might be here at home.”
“Are you suggesting,” said Kline, in disbelief, “that Marwat has a mole in the CIA?”
“I’m suggesting maybe Cougar thought this ship wasn’t run as tightly as he liked. Maybe he only wanted someone he could trust to be able to understand his message.”
“I see,” said Kline, through his small teeth. “Well, as you said, the point is moot. Mr. Plante, kindly escort Cobra out of the building.”
“We’ve arranged for a car to take you to the airport,” Plante told Morgan as they walked out of the building. He handed Morgan a piece of paper, folded in thirds. “Here’s a copy of your itinerary. Your flight to Boston leaves at five. I’m sorry we wasted your time.”
“You know I’d do anything for Cougar. There was a time, Plante, that I would’ve done anything for you, too.”
“There are things I wish I could tell you, Cobra. Things that would convince that you I was always on Cougar’s side. And that I’m your side now, too.”
“But you can’t,” Morgan said, with deadpan sarcasm. “Because it’s classified.”
“I really wish I could. There’s a lot that you don’t know.”
“And that you can’t tell me. How convenient.”
“Maybe one day we can put our differences behind us,” said Plante sincerely. “Maybe one day, when you have the full picture of what went on.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
Morgan turned and walked toward the town car that was waiting for him, leaving Plante standing on the curb next to the Headquarters building.
Morgan had an uneventful ride to the airport. Once there, out of the driver’s sight, he picked up a pay phone and dialed Information. His call connected, and after a few minutes, he hung up and called Jenny, telling her that he would have to stay in DC overnight. Then he hopped into a cab and took off, away from the airport, to see an old friend.
CHAPTER 9
“Let me see if I understand you correctly. You wish to go into the heart of an occupied country, and you want no one to know about it?”
The man with the serenely quizzical look on his face was Kadir Fastia. His hallmark beard, neatly trimmed, was now a near-white that stood out against his olive skin. Fastia was a deliberate man, and every movement he made, down to each small gesture, seemed measured, considered. He was the image, Morgan thought, of a man at peace with himself. A cigar smoldered between his fingers. Smoke permeated the air in his study, trapped by closed doors and windows with the blinds down, keeping out the evening sun except for thin slivers that spilled onto Fastia’s desk. Through the window, Morgan could hear the laughter of Fastia’s grandchildren, who were playing outside.
“For starters, yeah.”
“Am I correct in assuming that you do not wish to use your real name?”
“You are.”
Fastia took a scrap of paper and scribbled a name and a number on it. “This man can help you. Passport, driver’s license—local, European, Chinese—anything you need, he can get it to you. Tell him that I sent you, and he will get for you what you ask.”
“Much appreciated, Kadir,” he said, pocketing the paper. “This will be helpful. But what I really need”—Morgan sighed—“is wings.”
Fastia looked at him pointedly. “You wish for help getting into the country? For my help?”
“Getting in isn’t the problem. It’s getting out afterward. So I guess the question is, can you do it?”
“The question, my friend, is what do you intend to do while you are there?” Fastia puffed on his cigar, and the smoke filtered out of his mouth in dense curlicues.
Morgan looked out the window pensively, then said, “What’s your relationship with the CIA like these days?”
“Mutual toleration,” said Fastia. “I don’t ask too many questions about the work that I do for them, and they don’t ask too many about the work I do on my own.”
“What do you know about Cougar?”
“I have worked with Cougar since you departed, but not for some time now,” said Fastia.
“Did you know he’s dead?”
Fastia’s eyes widened slightly, and grief lined his face. “No. This is the first I have heard of this. How did it happen?”
“He was running a mission, solo, in Kandahar. I guess someone sniffed him out.”
“In Kandahar, you say. So I assume this is the reason that you are going?”